


Love Sick

by HarleyMischief



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Awesome Molly, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Greg, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, POV Greg, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 00:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarleyMischief/pseuds/HarleyMischief
Summary: Greg is trying to date Molly Hooper. Being sick isn't going to help his cause.Is it?Written for an anon on Tumblr. I'm currently taking prompts for all Sherlock ships and all ratings you can think of so hit me up: https://mychaoticvictor.tumblr.com(May contain some minor typing errors but that's because it doesn't matter how many times I read through I always miss something)





	

Greg sits facing her – she’s pretty and he’s always thought so. Always - though she was wasted on Sherlock who cant see a good thing unless it has the ability to help him self-destruct. He’s glad she seems to be some way to getting over him. Maybe he can help. He likes the way her hair isn’t exactly perfect – that it falls down from the ponytail and frames her face. Molly isn’t an inch like his ex-wife and he likes that, he needs it. They drink coffee and they talk. Real talk – not dead bodies and cases but – TV shows and music and how it would be really nice to do this again sometime. 

It’s a little louder at the pub, which usually isn’t a problem. He likes watching football and often after a few pints can join in shouting or swearing at the television when things don’t go the right way but tonight he’s on a date – he thinks it’s a date. That’s not to mention the headache, the fourth night in a row without sleep. He looks pasty, he hasn’t shaved and this was probably a really bad idea. 

“Are you alright? I mean – you look…not. Not alright.” Molly looks across at him and he clears his throat. 

“It’s just a cold or something – it’s been bloody busy recently and it’s just – well Sherlock drama is practically unrelenting and I guess I’m getting a little tired – “ 

He watches her face fall and instantly feels guilty for mentioning it – for making it awkward. He’s good at that. Being awkward. 

“You look nice – pretty. I’m rubbish really.” Greg laughs but it isn’t funny. She laughs along which actually helps. 

“Thanks. That’s nice of you. I tried. To look nice. It’s a date so that’s normal isn’t it.”

“Is it?” He asks. 

“A date? I thought…”

“Yeah. Yeah of course. Good.”

There’s a silence and it lays somewhere between comfortable and really strange. It passes and it’s almost as if he hadn’t mentioned Sherlock. It’s almost as if things are going really well. 

Two nights later, three am and he’s sweating through the sheets. His fever has peaked and he could swear he’s hallucinating. He could call John – but with a dead wife and a drug addled best friend (?) he supposes the man has quite enough on his plate. He would go to emergency at St Thomas’ if he wasn’t scared of falling down as soon as he walked through the door. Greg picks up his phone and scrolls through the numbers – struggling to breath, feeling his chest rattle as he intakes air. Molly. He could call Molly. He didn’t much want her to see this sticky disgusting mess and it was definitely not a decent time of night. Maybe later. Or a text. Greg coughs and it hurts.

Sorry. It’s late I hope this doesn’t wake you. I’m sick. Might need someone to check me over. If you’re free. GL

Sorry. Don’t worry. It’s fine. Ignore me. GL

He instantly feels ridiculous and lays back down, staring up at the ceiling, half worried he might start hallucinating if his temperature grows any higher. 

He’s in a daze, his silver hair sweat damp half sticking to his forehead – half awake and half asleep when the bell rings. Rings and then a heavy banging. Greg grunts and pushes himself up – stumbling awkwardly down the corridor of his apartment. Its only when he opens the door that he realises it’s day time with the light burning his eyes. A second later he notices Molly Hopper standing looking concerned. Another moment and he realises he wearing nothing but a pair of grey cotton boxer shorts.

“I was worried. That something bad had happened. I had the day off so it’s no trouble really and I thought if I could help – you look awful.” 

He barks out a laugh and nods. “Yeah. Pretty awful. I’m sorry I was delirious – it was three am. I felt like I was dying. I feel like I’m dying.” 

He corrects himself quickly and walks further into the house, stepping back into his bedroom if only to pick up the white t shirt that he discarded on the floor at some point in the night and pulling it over his head. Greg turns back and Molly is standing in the doorway – his breath catches but he doesn’t know why. 

“Sit down – I want to take your temperature if it’s so high – you shouldn’t be on your own.”

Greg wants to argue that he’s fine but he isn’t and actually he doesn’t want to be on his own so he sits on the edge of the bed, still as anything. She approaches him and her hands are cool on his forehead. He wants to apologise for being a sweaty sick mess. She doesn’t seem to care. She’s a doctor. 

“It’s high. Not scary high. I mean it’s not good but it could be worse. Just lie down. I’ll get you something. Some water. Paracetamol for the fever should hep bring it down some. I’ll stay with you. I mean – I’ll stay here until – if you don’t mind.” 

He shakes his head but instantly wishes he hadn’t when the world spins. 

“I do. I want you to stay. I’m sorry I’m – gross.” He laughs again which he seems to be doing a lot of without really knowing why. 

“You’re sick. It’s okay.”

She disappears for a little while and he steps into the small bathroom adjoining his bedroom. He really truly looks like shit and any hope of his getting intimate with Molly at any point in his life goes swiftly out of the window. He brushes his teeth anyway and sprays his body with drug store deodorant just because he doesn’t want to repel her completely. Greg’s back in bed before she gets back. She hands him a bottle of water and his fingers graze hers which is cliché but it does spark. For him at least. She follows his path to the bathroom and fixes up a cold wash-cloth, gently dabbing at his face which feels – really just feels like heaven. 

“You know – I wanted to say before but I didn’t. before at the pub. I like you. So this is good. Not good. I don’t mean you being sick. But it’s okay for you to text me if you need something. I know it might be weird…”

He wants to stop her but he doesn’t – he just looks into her big doe eyes like he’s just been handed the surprise of a lifetime. 

“But I’m not – I’m over him. Really. You know I thought he was this big amazing thing but that’s just…it’s him isn’t it. And he’s a mess. We’re all a mess but he’s not my mess.” She closes her eyes and he can tell she’s having trouble getting the right words out. 

“He’s John’s mess. In whatever weird way that is. I don’t even know. See? I don’t even know him half of the time. Especially now. But I know you – I think. Greg.” She swallows and he still can’t seem to talk – he wonders if he looks like an idiot for just laying there and staring at her. 

“Or I want too. You know. Know you better.”

“Yes.” He blurts it out suddenly, so loudly that it shocks her a little – it’s mortifying really but he can’t take it back. “I mean yes. Sure. Let’s know each other.” He smirks and suddenly the fever doesn’t seem so bad. 

The fever passes. Time passes and everything finds a strange way of settling itself. Especially now – especially in the sanctuary of a now familiar bedroom with pastel green walls, with patterned curtains rather than a blind. When he has to move throw cushions off of the bed before they get into it but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t say it’s pointless because it isn’t. Because she likes them. 

Her back is this pale plane of milky skin – he can just about make out the line of her spine as she sleeps through the semi darkness, the orange glow of the street light is complimentary to her complexion. Her hair tumbles down over her shoulders onto the pillow. It didn’t happen straight away and he’s glad. It was patient and easy – like waiting a long time for a really good nap. The sound of her breathing is soft but not like in movies – she still makes those silly sleep noises that people just do make. She’s still a real person. That’s what he likes. A lot of things in his life don’t feel particularly real sometimes - but this does. He’s quite happy to not be able to sleep if he can look at the slight curve of her body under the sheets that rest at her waist. He’s quite happy to shuffle forward just enough that the heat of his body presses to hers as she sleeps. 

“Stop staring at me.” She mumbles, half conscious.

He laughs and this time he isn’t nervous. 

This times he's really just - very happy.


End file.
